


Just One More

by riverofbrokensouls



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Depression, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverofbrokensouls/pseuds/riverofbrokensouls
Summary: ° Trigger warning for graphic depictions of self harm and and an explicit suicide attempt °Logan hid his scars well.It was illogical, he knew that. No side with a rational mind would do what he did. But how could he stop when it brought him the relief he so deperately needed?He never meant for it to end up like this.
Kudos: 21





	Just One More

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to mention once more that this story contains very graphic depictions of self-hate, self harm, and a suicide attempt. If any of these things could possibly trigger you, please avoid this story. 
> 
> Please use these if you need, there's no shame in asking for help!
> 
> Canadian Suicide Prevention hotline: 1-833-456-4566  
> American National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> And you can always use your country's emergency services number to reach help that you need.

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Logan hid his scars well. 

It certainly wasn't a difficult feat to accomplish. He wore the same outfit everyday; a reputable black polo paired with simple slacks, finished with a statement piece of neckwear to tie  
the whole "nerdy chic" look together, no pun intended. He told the other sides that a predictable set of garments made the process of dressing efficient, thus providing more time for tasks that were of real priority. It was only logical that his clothing choices lacked a certain flare that his counterparts possessed. Of course, his consistent wardrobe provided one other benefit. No one found it suspicious that Logan never wore anything other than pants, even if the weather called for something a tad more seasonal. They were far quicker to assume that Logan only desired to keep up his professional appearance, and it wasn't like he was going to correct them. 

The pain was more difficult to hide, but certainly not impossible. Awkward grimaces could easily be passed off as him being too engrossed in work to realize the expressions he was making. Hot showers stung more than he'd care to admit, so he only took cold showers as they were "environmentally sound." Sure, he resided in the mindspace where the realities of climate change did not exist, but Logan claimed his intent was to set an example for Thomas to follow. No one questioned it. If one of the others accidentally grazed his thighs when sitting on the couch, Logan's flinches were written off as being part of his established, touch-adverse nature. The limping was harder to explain, but most days Logan could find a way to place the blame on one of Roman's poorly executed antics. There was never a shortage of them, after all. 

Logan did regret the outbursts. Although he tried everything he could to eliminate any suspicions, Logan simply couldn't remain stoic all the time. Sometimes, Roman's pranks ended up being a bit too rough, and healed wounds would crack under the stress. Patton would hug him just a bit too tightly, and his legs rubbing against Logan's would irritate scars that were still trying to form. Virgil's religious headphone usage and constant downward gaze led to a fair share of collisions, and every time he fell Logan wondered if this time his pants would ride up just a bit too far. It wasn't their fault. They didn't know that they were making everything worse, but Logan couldn't help but be upset. His temper was made shorter by the constant, every present pain in his legs. By the end of most days, he'd lock himself in his room, slamming the door on anyone who tried to intrude on the one place he could go to escape. He didn't care if they thought he was an asshole. It was best if they took everything at face value. 

He knew it was illogical. 

That was the paradox. How could the physical manifestation of Logic engage in such irrational behaviors? Pain exists as a system of synapses firing faster than perceptible to the human mind, alerting his nerves to a danger he may yet to have realized. A quick cut, sizzling burn, sharp jolt, all trigger a response that has evolved over centuries with one sole purpose; protection. Pain is meant to be a warning, not a motive. Bodies are meant to be resilient, but scars should only form from dire circumstances, scabs should only form over unavoidable accidents. Logan knew that the body was designed to bleed, but not at the hands of its host! 

And yet, it wasn't entirely illogical, was it? The human brain is an incredibly complex creation, a maze of knowledge that top researchers are only beginning to navigate. Is it so irrational to realize that coping mechanisms which develop from less than ideal circumstances may also be less than ideal? Is it irrational to believe that this, no matter how destructive, is better than the alternative? Logan wasn't sure. 

He was used to being sure. 

Logan was also used to being a productive worker, but tonight it seemed as though nothing was going according to plan, and he meant that literally (his bullet journal clearly stated that these tasks were meant to be completed by 9:30). Being the embodiment of logic, petty distractions couldn't distract him. To be logical was to be efficient, to be committed to a task until it was sufficiently completed. Procrastination was the opposite of all that Logan personified. It created an unfavorable work environment, as tasks left until the last minute were rarely completed with the same detail that they otherwise would've been if proper planning had been used to organize a work schedule. Logan should've been congratulating himself on another day of work well done before heading to bed at ten, the optimal time to achieve a full eight hours of slumber before Thomas' alarm rang in the morning. 

Instead, bloodshot eyes glanced towards the clock on his bedside table, noticing that the smaller hand pointed towards one, the larger pointing somewhere past six, although it's exact position was too difficult to see when looking through tears. 

Wait, tears? 

When had he started crying? 

Logan didn't cry. He was Logic, the embodiment of an unbiased, rational mind, unswayed by petty emotions or deluded feelings. When all others succumbed to their own baseless arguments, Logan could provide the essential facts and reasoning to create an adequate solution. This wasn't to say that Logan had never been wrong before, or that he perceived crying to be a weakness in the others. Logan understood that crying was an excellent emotional regulator, one that when employed reasonably, can provide much needed mental relief to those who are struggling. He consistently encouraged his counterparts to feel comfortable expressing their emotions. He did all that he could to ensure that they understood just how essential crying can be to themselves and their host. Crying is normal, even beneficial, for every side. 

Every side except Logan. 

So why could he feel the hot tears roll down his cheeks, leaving oil slick trails on his face that already felt as though they had been ignited? Why were his glasses already foggy? Had his eyes become so misty that his vision was impaired? He struggled to contain the flow, to prevent them from spilling across the papers on his desk. He was making such a mess. Why did he have to make such a mess? Why did his chest heave with every strangled breath he struggled to take into his shaking body? 

Why was he such a fucking failure? 

Logan couldn't move, even when every muscle in his body begged him to do something, anything to make this stop. Each breath triggered a new eruption of searing pain in his chest, each desperate gasp tearing his body apart from the inside out. Strangled gasps came out instead of screams, for his throat was raw from choking back tears, only to choke on them later. Perhaps it was better like that, for no one could hear his anguished screams if his body couldn't produce them. All he could hear was static. All he could feel was his chest bursting, fibre by fibre, until he could barely breathe. All he could taste was the familiar saltiness of disappointment, the crippling weakness that defined his character. He would do anything to make it all stop. 

Logan regretted the thought as soon as it popped into his head. Desperately, he tried to cast away the seeds of such a heinous idea, but they had already been buried within the soil of his mind, sprouting before his very eyes. Just once, he promised himself, one tiny cut and he wouldn't go any further. Logan knew that these words meant nothing. Once he started, he knew that stopping wouldn't be possible. One was not enough. It never was. 

He kept his tools in the middle, left-hand side drawer of his desk, placed neatly in a small container that had so far remained inconspicuous to the other sides. It's not like anyone would suspect that Logan had a handful of razor blades stashed in his desk anyways. Within moments, the box in question had been removed and placed in the center of his chaotic workspace. Logan looked it over one last time, giving himself one final chance to reconsider. Some small part of himself desperately wanted to stop, and yet the memories of previous release he had experienced kept flooding his senses. How fucked up had his mind become, that this was something he craved? 

His hesitation entirely forgotten, Logan methodically unclipped the latch on the container, revealing the sick sight within. Blades of different sizes, some dulled with use, others fresh for the taking, all desperately calling out to him, begging to be used. Some he has painstakingly removed from his shaving razors. Others, he had unscrewed from some of Patton's pencil sharpeners that coincidentally "went missing." A couple were simply fresh blades he had conjured after realizing how tedious it was to dismantle these objects to reap the treasure within. After gazing upon his ever growing selection, Logan decided upon a simple, fresh blade. 

The cool touch of steel sent a wave of chills down Logan's fingertips as he gently slipped the blade between them. It was almost electric, the feeling of metal in his grasp, the feeling of anticipation coursing through his veins. For a moment Logan paused, this time not due to hesitance, but instead to bask in the glow of his twisted excitement. This feeling was familiar, far more comforting than it should've been. This razor was to him, was the same as a memory to Patton, as security to Virgil, as a creative breakthrough to Roman; invigorating, refreshing, so very necessary. Logan could not wait another second. 

It took only a moment for him to locate a relatively untouched patch of skin on his left thigh. Although scars littered the surface already, they were old and fading. Compared to the many wounds he possessed that were still raw and scabbing, this seemed like an excellent place to begin. Logan inhaled, slowly, surely, and placed the blade against his skin. 

Euphoria. 

That's what he felt as the metal made its way through his flesh. Pure bliss. Each stroke left a chasm in its wake, slowly opening, dripping red down the sides of his thighs. Tiny droplets of blood sprouted from every opening, the satisfying sight only convincing Logan to cut longer, harder. When he went deeper, the blood no longer speckled his skin, but instead flowed freely from his veins as if a dam within him had burst. He was captivated by the meandering path of the blood dripping onto the floor, drop by drop. 

It could've been mere moments since he began, or it could've been hours of mindless release, but eventually Logan came to a sudden halt. The pleasant feeling of satisfaction had slowly ebbed away, leaving only searing burns in its wake. The razor that has once effortlessly passed through skin was now ripping his flesh in two. Had the once sharp edge been dulled into something blunt, something that left jagged, agonizing cuts instead of clean lines? Or had he simply been so disconnected from reality that he hadn't realized how excruciating it was in the first place? 

Logan allowed the razor to slip between his fingers and clatter to the floor. The metallic sound echoed far too loudly throughout his room, and stopped far too suddenly when the razor stilled. In the oppressive silence of a once welcoming room, Logan was forced to gaze upon his bloody handiwork. Stark red slices lined both thighs, crisscrossed over large portions of available skin. Certain marks were shallow, barely grazes across his thigh, while others were still overflowing with crimson tears, pooling from severed veins. Wounds that had previously healed had been torn apart once more, the pain searing through once scabbed flesh. His porcelain skin had been stained red. All he could see was red. 

The pain was worse than it ever had been. One wound in particular stung worse than the others, worse than anything he had ever experienced. Logan was too afraid to even glance at it. Most cuts stung for only moments, certainly none were usually deep enough to cause such an intense, unbearable ache. Logan always tried to keep his wounds shallow enough that he would be able to walk in the morning. He tried to reassure himself that this cut, although far more painful than anything else, was simply in a sensitive area. He refused to look at it, refused to acknowledge the reality of the situation. 

He didn't have to look. The damage was already done. 

It's not like glancing at the cut, far too deep across his thigh, would've helped much anyways now that his vision was growing spotty. Although he desperately tried to hold on, the suffocating fog that forced its way upon him was too overwhelming. Sitting up suddenly seemed like an impossible struggle. It was as if his body moved without his control, all but slumping out of the chair and landing with a dull thud on the floor. The way he fell would almost be cartoonishly laughable if what remained of Logan's mind wasn't overwhelmed with panic. 

His sight had given up on him. Everything was blurry, and he could barely keep his eyes open. His body had certainly given up on him. He couldn't convince any muscle to move, not even his vocal chords to cry for help. All he could feel was the chasm in leg, the overwhelming agony that rolled up his body in waves. He could feel a dampness spread around the lower half of his body, and Logan nearly vomited when he realized what it was; a pool of his own blood, slowly spilling across the carpet that he lay incapacitated on. The scent of copper was nauseating. 

A whirlwind of thoughts flew through his head as his grasp of the world slowly slipped away. 

Who was going to find him like this? He hoped that whoever found him first, please don't let Patton see. This would break him. He couldn't do that to him. 

Will they know that hedidn't mean to do this? That he wasn't trying to end it? 

Would they understand? 

Logan desperately wished that he hadn't left this mess for someone else to clean up. They were going to notice that he was gone, and then they were going to find him in a puddle of his own blood. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt them, and now it seemed as thought his final act would be putting them through more pain than anyone deserved. 

He wished they would just forget. 

He wished they would never find his body.

It's better like that, isn't it? He'd be gone, and then they wouldn't have to deal with the hell he constantly put them through. They can replace him with someone better. 

The thought of someone else taking over his post, encouraging productivity within the sides, filled Logan with momentary comfort. His friends deserved someone who could pull their own weight. Someone who wasn't him. 

What's going to happen now? 

Would he just come back? 

Or would he be erased from Thomas' memory forever? 

He didn't know which scenario he prefered.

It's not like he had a choice now 

This whole situation seemed so impossible that Logan wanted to laugh. Instead, a mere smile made its way upon his lips, juxtaposed by the tears streaked across his cheeks and the blood splattered across his body. 

It was all going to be okay.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan believed it. 

Then his vision went dark.

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End file.
